


Trees Against The Sky

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shipwrecked, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feelings, Flashbacks, Hurt Spock, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jim Kirk, Jim Kirk is raised by aliens, M/M, Nightmares, Tarsus IV, alien!bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic something like five years ago now to be included in a Star Trek fic anthology, put together by @arminaa. Somehow it never made the transition from livejournal over to AO3, so I figured I'd go ahead and post it now, even if it's pretty old at this point. It's not really either TOS or TAS; it's alternate to both of them, I suppose. 
> 
> Original Author's Notes:  
>  **Warnings** : mentions of past violence, description of a killing.  
>  **Beta** : the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann  
>  **For** : a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
> 
> **Thanks to** : @medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise @lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to @ewinfic for giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who is putting out this danged thing. You are amazing.
> 
> **And a Final Note** : this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful @13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3

He's hunting when he sees it fall, a bright streak of light against the starry darkness. Later on he will think of it as the night that changed everything, but not in this moment. Right now he stands still and watches it fall, flaming, and listens for the boom.

The impact site is close, easily within a day’s travel and off to the southwest. He waits just long enough to check in with the rest of the hunt before he’s heading off toward the dim horizon. They don’t need him, not in a hunting party of five others, so he drives himself across the terrain, not pausing to examine why it is that this sound, this smell on the wind has him in a panic, the blood rushing through his heart, knotting in his stomach.

It takes him about two hours to reach the site. It’s still smoldering, the grass around the wrecked hunk of metal having largely burned itself out in the dark. Fortunately, it’s the beginning of the wet season, so the grass is freshly damp, and he sees no signs of a brushfire. He double-checks before approaching, leaving his travois well away, just in case. Looks it over, thinks. Fear is a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it, because this…

He knows what this is.

It’s just like what brought him here.

A choked-off moan jolts him into wary alertness- of course, if it’s a star-ship of some kind, there was likely someone in it. He remembers vaguely that there are unpiloted drones that sometimes circle planets, but those are small, with just enough fuel to achieve a steady orbit. They wouldn’t make a fireball like this.

Or that sound.

He eyes the wreck dubiously. It’s flaming, and he is wearing little more than a waistcloth in deference to the summer heat. The sound comes again, trigging a flash of adrenaline in his veins and a vision of shooting stars that clouds his vision. The panic tugs at him, dragging him down, down. He forces it back, breathing slowly through his nose, desperately ignoring the stench of burning flesh and molten debris.

If there are any survivors ( _anyone like him_ ), they won’t have long.

He shrugs his shoulders unconsciously, wraps his hands in the strips of leather which tie his pack, and begins to pick his way to the burning pile of debris.

The moaning is coming from a body near what must have been the front of the craft. The flames are licking very close, and a quick inspection immediately shows that there’s no helping this passenger. The passenger is human, male, and relatively young, Jim thinks. He leans in to get a closer look, and shudders, forcing down his gag reflex. The man’s whole lower body is crushed into his seat, and the faceplate of his helmet is splintered past seeing into or out. Jim thinks he may even already be unconscious, and simply moaning with the pain of his smashed limbs. Either way there’s no helping it - neither he, nor the village, can treat these kinds of wounds, but if the man is left in this condition, he’ll be burnt to death slowly and painfully. Jim leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of the man’s helmet, pausing to judge the amount of needed force.

“Sorry. For the best.”

One quick jerk, and the moans are silenced, the helmet resting gently now against the seat. The heat is beginning to singe the hairs on his arms, the flames jumping as they begin to devour what’s left of the cabin. Another body rests on the far side of the first, but a swift look tells Jim that this one is already mercifully gone.

He steps back, casting a critical eye over the front section. He knows there could still be fuel or other flammable and/or explosive elements left - the sooner he leaves the better.

He’d thought…he’d hoped…he doesn’t know what, really. He hadn’t stopped to think about the compulsion that drove him to the site, and now he can’t focus on the panic that’s skittering around his consciousness, making his hands shake and his eyes blur.

There’s no one here. Not anymore.

He’s untying the leather straps from his hands when he hears it - not a moan this time, but a word, or maybe two words, he’s not sure. He looks around warily - nothing moves. He stands, considering.

It can’t have come from the front part of the wreckage - that’s already engulfed in flames, and besides, he’s sure if there had been another body, he would have seen it. All the other pieces of the craft seem too small to hide another passenger, but…oh, there it is. Off to one side, so that it has been cast in shadow, lays another, smaller chunk of wreckage. One just big enough to conceal a wounded crew member.

Jim makes his way cautiously over, picking his way carefully in a wide berth of the immolated nose of the ship. There it is again, the sound light, but carrying, in the humid night. He reaches the side of the hidden debris and peers in.

The victim is unconscious, but living. His helmet is off, and the light from the flames casts flickering shadows over the harsh features of an alien face. Sharp-tipped ears and delicately-winged brows combine with the cut on his head oozing a steady green ichor to show that he is alien, _other_ , not like the tribe. Not like Jim.

Jim leans in to get a better look.

He’s still alive - he must be tougher than the others, or else in a more protected position in the ship. Either way, he has survived, and could possibly continue surviving, if Jim can just get him out. His left leg is clearly badly broken, and Jim would lay real good odds on a head injury, but aside from that, he seems to be in relatively good shape, considering he just fell several miles in what amounts to a tin can. Jim climbs onto the wreckage, assessing. Yes - if he can lever the side wall of this compartment out just enough, he should be able to extricate this passenger from the seat. It’s going to hurt like bloody hell to move that leg, but with a little luck, the guy won’t remember it. It’s the blessing of head injuries, Jim thinks, and without further ado, begins hauling on the recalcitrant piece of metal sheeting standing between him and the alien.

It doesn’t take him long - fulcrums work the same way on any planet with gravity, and the debris yields quickly, leaving Jim to maneuver his travois into place. He grimaces. This is going to abort his hunting trip before he’s had a chance to catch anything, and if this alien is injured enough to need regular tending, it may be weeks before he gets out again. He has stores enough, but the thought of eating through them makes him nervous. He never likes to be low on food, not ever, but he can’t think of any way to help it, not right now. He clenches his jaw and unclips the belts holding the alien in place. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, he knows this is the only option. He can’t leave someone who might have a chance, give up on them before they’ve even begun. What if the villagers had given up on him? What if he’d been left to die?

He can’t stomach the thought, so he picks up the travois instead, shifting the balance between his hands. The alien will come with him, and if he dies, so be it. If not…well, then, they’ll see.

\--

The alien does as well as could be hoped for, Jim thinks. There’s a moment when Jim is manhandling him onto the travois that the broken leg hits the ground with a thump and the alien screams, his eyes flying open to lock onto Jim’s. Jim’s breath catches, his gaze caught and frozen, but it only holds for a second before the dark eyes roll up and the alien is unconscious again, his limp form dead weight on the skins.

Jim straps him down, appropriating a nearby piece of metal to splint the leg. He doesn’t even try to straighten it - it’s too dark, and he needs to get out of here, like, yesterday, because he can hear the scavengers circling. He folds the alien’s arms across his chest, strapping him tightly across his waist, his thighs, his shoulders, and his ankles. He spares a thought for how deeply uncomfortable this will be for the poor victim, and then he’s off toward home, the travois dragging heavily behind him.

\--

They make it as far as the river before dawn, reaching the twisting band of placid blue just as the sun is breaking over the horizon. Jim has a moment of trepidation as he looks at the rope and barge - the alien is heavier than he looks, dense with muscle on his wiry frame, and it’s been a long trek to get this far. He worries the barge will sink, but there’s no help for it - it’s the only way across. He pauses, considering, then unstraps the restraints from all but around the unconscious man’s chest - if something goes wrong, Jim should be able to snap that last one with his knife, then haul the limp form to shore. The alien turns, muttering, twitching his fingers in an obvious attempt at catching Jim’s hands. Jim slips easily out of his reach.

He drags the barge as far onto firm ground as he can while having it still tethered to the rope that spans the water. It takes a good space of time to wrestle the laden travois onto the simple stretch of wood and withy, but he manages. He’s covered in mud by the time he’s done, but it doesn’t matter at this point anyway. He shoves the raft as hard as he can into the water, grunting with exertion as it pulls free of the sucking muck.

There’s a scary moment when it rocks, and the unconscious passenger throws out an arm, making the barge dip and sink, but he manages to get them re-balanced after a lurching couple of seconds, and continues hauling them across the water, hand over hand on the rope.

After the river it’s only a matter of hours to reach his home - they make it in a decent amount of time, arriving just as the full heat of the day is beginning to hit, and Jim drags them both into the shade, collapsing to lie on his back and pant, mouth open. The leaves of the tree above him rustle reassuringly in the light breeze, and he closes his eyes in relief.

Jim’s dwelling sits a ways out from the edge of the village, which is itself situated at the base of a low-lying spine of mountains. A collection of large, thick-trunked trees arrange themselves at the edge of the foothills, sucking up the water as it runs down from the heights. It’s these trees that provide the supporting branches for the village itself, a group of around forty dwellings built between three and six heights off the ground. Wooden bridges connect the buildings, making it possible to remain above for days or weeks at a time.

When Jim was ready to build his own space, he selected a tree away from the others - a sprawling giant out on the edge of the grassland. It seemed right for him to be alone - he was different, after all, and as kind as the villagers have always been to him, he has no real place with them. No, better for him to be on the outside, where he can watch, where he can wait.

The floor of his house is wide and clean - hewn planks of wood meticulously smoothed and anchored in the lower branches. The main platform is approximately five lengths square, with a smaller, secondary platform a little lower and to the side for waste. The walls are lattice work, closely enough woven to keep out most of the birds and all of the tree-climbers, but wide enough to allow full air circulation. Four corner poles and four center poles support a thatched roof piled high and tied tight to wick off the monsoon season rains. Each wall holds its own woven blind to be raised or lowered depending on temperature and light needs, creating a solid walled structure, or an airy platform as needed.

He is proud of it. He built it himself with no help, a labor of many weeks. But it has been worth it, to have this small thing to call his own.

The alien groans again, and Jim looks at him consideringly. He is proud of his home, yes. But right now he may be even prouder of the pulley system he rigged to haul heavy cuts of meat up to his living space. Because at the moment? This alien is a particularly heavy cut of meat.

\--

“So?”

The man shrugs eloquently, lifting his palms up in the universal gesture of ambivalence before dropping them down between his crossed legs.

“Dunno, kid. Never seen anything like him before. He’s not one of us.” He runs a deceptively lazy orange eye over the prone alien, then over Jim. “Not one of you, either. Who can say?” He reaches over to poke a finger into the sleeping alien’s side, his pupils shrinking to a suspicious slit when the alien moans. “We got his leg set, that’s the important piece. His head…either it’ll fix or it won’t. You said he’s been under how long?”

“At least a full day.”

“Yeah. He may wake up. He may not.”

The man shrugs again, making the bones on his shirt front rattle with the motion. He rises stiffly to his feet, stomping to work out the kinks.

“I’ll leave you some roots for the pain. If he wakes up, start him on small doses - we have no idea how he’ll react. If there’s no obvious problem, up the dosage until it seems to have an effect. That’s the best I can tell you, kid. Keep him watered. Try not to get your hopes up.”

Jim nods in agreement, forcing himself to ignore the body in the corner of his house.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“You do that. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks, Bones.” Jim grins, pulling the door curtain out of the way for the man to descend. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man waves a disgruntled hand. “Take care of yourself, kid. I’ll know if you don’t.”

Jim rolls his eyes, but nods. He can hear the man muttering to himself, the sounds interspersed with the rattling of his tunic decoration as he stomps down the circular stairs. One last harrumph, and Bones is gone.

Now? It’s just Jim and the alien.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes up slowly, his awareness creeping back to him in bits and pieces.

He is…lying on his back. He is warm. He cannot move.

His name is Spock.

Pushing at the edges of his mind are flashes of memory, disjointed scraps full of light and flame. He thinks he remembers that he was in a shuttlecraft. Visions of a blue-green planet beneath him, a large nebula just off the port bow. Murmurs of voices behind him. Then nothing until the flickering lights of a fire, and waves of excruciating pain.

He can remember the sound of a voice amidst the wash of hurt, but it’s a different voice than the one he can remember from the shuttle. Hands that pushed under his twisted body and pulled, then darkness again.

He is becoming gradually more aware of his surroundings as he collects himself, letting his senses reach out and catalog the area around him as he lies perfectly still. The sound of birds, the heat of the day. The angle of the sunlight on his body implies that it is late afternoon, and he remembers from the shuttle that the area of the planet onto which they had fixed their orbit was just entering mid-summer. Likely to be hot.

There is no sound of another bipedal being nearby, only the rustling of wind in leaves and the unconcerned chirping of the nearby avians. Which…is interesting. Where exactly is he? And how exactly did he get there?

Spock takes a deep breath, parting his lips to allow the scents to play over his palate, identifying those which he can, and cataloguing the others for later analysis. Wood is the predominant smell, wood and sun-warmed foliage. He is either beneath or in a large tree, he thinks, though how and why are yet to be determined. There is also the smell of the thin blanket draped across him, which must be woven from some sort of grass fiber. Over to his right he can taste the scent of previous meals, which leads him to believe that he is in some kind of personal dwelling. Extrapolation would dictate that it is likely to be the home of either the person who rescued him, or else a close family member or friend. He can pick up the odor of a nearby latrine, though the smell is well masked. The refuse is well kept, then - reassuring. A breeze drifts across his skin, raising goose bumps where the blanket doesn’t cover. A river, a relatively short distance from where he lays - one with substantial tidal flats, likely a wide and shallow track across what must be plains.

He gives a final sniff, but finds nothing he had missed initially. He considers opening his eyes, but he can already feel unconsciousness pulling at him again. His body is doing what it does best at these moments - devoting itself entirely to healing. His thoughts fade back into oblivion, and he drifts.

\--

The next time he wakes, Spock is immediately aware of a presence very near him. He pauses for a millisecond, wondering if it is wise to advertise his conscious state, but dismisses it nearly instantly. Clearly if this being wanted him dead, it would not have bothered saving him, not to mention the many opportunities it has since had to end his life.

He opens his eyes.

The boy is across the small room from him, head bent over something in his lap, face scrunched in concentration as he works what looks like a needle through a well-tanned hide. Light plays across his features, late evening sun through the lattice work walls casting geometric patterns on his darkly tanned skin. He’s very clearly humanoid, but Spock can’t quite figure out how he would be here - he’s sure he remembers that they had seen forms of sentient humanoid life on this planet, but there had been no First Contact, and therefore, there should be no humans.

Logically, if there has been no First Contact, this boy must be of the native race. But the native race is of a completely different skin tone and bone structure, based on what he remembers from the long-range viewers. This boy is too different, he thinks, to be a genetic mutation, and he looks like nothing so much as a human adolescent.

Fascinating, Spock thinks, and makes an involuntary movement with his arm that has him hissing in pain. For all that his body is adept at healing itself, he must have been very seriously injured, because he is now aware that he _hurts_. He hisses again under his breath, attempting to move his arm to a non-painful position, and becomes suddenly aware that the motion across the room has stopped, the boy’s light eyes trained intently on him.

Their gazes lock for an instant, and then the boy is moving. He is older than Spock first thought, the worried lines his face makes as he settles on his knees next to Spock’s pallet giving him away. He’s an old teenager at the youngest, perhaps older, and whoever he is, he’s clearly been here a while.

“Are you ok?”

Spock wants to laugh, suddenly - Ensign Glover had the propensity for that same question, and it had taken Spock months to adapt to the consistent need of humans for verbal feedback.

The youth’s face is still concerned, so Spock nods, looking around quickly for something to drink. He doesn’t trust his vocal cords at this juncture without something to lubricate them.

The boy is quick, and presses a cup of water into his hand, levering an arm behind him to help Spock rise up to enough of an angle to swallow. He watches Spock carefully as Spock drinks the water slowly, allowing it to coat his throat and wet the insides of his mouth fully before reluctantly swallowing. He can feel the coolness all the way down his esophagus, refreshing his currently parched tissues.

He finishes the cup and hands it back wordlessly, letting the stranger guide him gently back down onto the mats beneath him.

“My condition is improving.”

The boy looks at him sharply.

“Uh-huh. Not what I asked.” He rolls his eyes. “I can tell that your condition is improving - you’re not seconds from death anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”

He speaks Standard like he’s forgotten that he knows how, his voice rough and accented. Spock’s not even sure that he’s _aware_ he’s speaking Standard, for that matter - he seems preoccupied, glancing around the small room at his various supplies. Whatever concern is bothering him seems to be swiftly dispatched, and he turns his uncompromising stare back on Spock.

“So, what _are_ you anyway?” He tips his head, reaching out to touch an ear point, but pulling his hand back before it makes contact. “I mean…I don’t even know what to feed you. I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re not like them” he makes a vague gesture toward the outside, and Spock files away this “them” for further questioning, “but you’re not like me, either. So…”

Spock is the first to look away, moving his arm cautiously out from under the blanket and flexing his fingers. So far, so good. He can feel that several ribs are broken, but his healing trance seems to have gotten them well on the way to mending. His left arm must also have had a hairline fracture, and the flexing of the tendons in his hands pulls on it uncomfortably, but again, it is now at least halfway healed.

His leg is another story. He doesn’t move it, not yet. The low, consistent, throb, and the lumpy shape under the covers tells him it’s heavily splinted and badly broken. It must have taken the brunt of the impact when he hit.

When _they_ hit.

“Are there any others?”

There’s a flash of pity across the other’s face, but he makes no attempt either to hide it, or to lie.

“No. One was dead when I got there, another was nearly gone.” He eyes are calm, but serious. “I almost didn’t see you; you were away from the others. But you were the only survivor.”

Spock feels his stomach sink. He’d been hoping without realizing it, hoping that the crash might not have been so bad, that during the indeterminate amount of time he’d been unresponsive, that Glover and Ajmani were off somewhere recuperating, or even better, salvaging some form of communication from the wreckage.

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“About four or so days. You were in and out of it for the day it took to bring you here, then another three and a half since then.”

“There have been no other…sightings…in that time?”

The boy narrows his eyes like he knows what Spock is trying to ask, but shakes his head slowly, _no_. Spock lets his eyes close in a moment of despair, aching deeply for the loss of his crewmates, little though he knew them.

He refuses to even contemplate the idea that he may be stuck here.

He can feel the weight of exhaustion on him again, and leans back into the bedding. Maybe by the time he has finished healing, they will have come looking for him. Maybe then he will no longer be stranded here, alone.

\--

Spock wakes again just as dawn breaks, the birdsong in the tree so raucous that he can’t begin to think how some humans find the noise peaceful and soothing. It had been irritating when Glover played his “Forest Sounds” files, and the real thing is apparently even more obnoxious, Spock thinks. There’s something that sounds very much like a tin can being pried open, and it seems to be perched directly above his head. He winces as it starts up again, pulling his good hand up to cover his ear and twisting his head so that his unprotected ear faces down into the bedding.

A gradually increasing guffaw begins to sneak its way past the protection of Spock’s hand, and he opens his eyes to see the boy sitting across from him, hands over his ears, and laughing uproariously at the look on Spock’s face.

“Oh god, I’m sorry.” He wipes tears from the corner of his eyes. “It was just…you were sleeping so peacefully, and then the look on your face…” he begins to laugh helplessly, legs spread out before him, loincloth tight around his hips. “You looked like you could have killed it with just your mind, with your eyes still closed. It was perfect. Ohh….” He trails off, still chuckling quietly to himself.

“The first time I heard one of those, I couldn’t even figure out if it was alive or not. I thought someone was twisting metal or something. When they showed me that it was a bird, I couldn’t believe it.” He drops his hands from his ears and looks Spock over, and Spock is once again struck by the very obvious intelligence in his gaze. “You’re looking better today. Like you might stay awake longer than half a conversation.”

Spock considers, letting his consciousness take stock of his body. He is indeed better, though still a long way from being fully healed.

“I am.”

“Great. You hungry?”

“I am.”

On cue, his stomach rumbles, bringing to his attention the aching hollowness in his guts that had been secondary to his residual aches and pains. He can feel that he has lost weight, his body stealing the energy needed to heal from his muscles and flesh.

It’s only a moment, and then there is a bowl being pressed into his hands. It’s clearly hand carved, from some sort of large nut, it seems. The contents are unidentifiable, but the smell is very appealing, and if it is something that this boy can eat, then it is unlikely to harm him. He tips the rim to his lips and takes a cautious mouthful.

The taste is…unusual. It’s neither bad nor good, but rather completely unlike anything he has eaten before. The boy is watching him carefully, so he takes another mouthful and swallows.

“I realize that I do not know your name.”

It’s only just occurred to him, in fact, but the fleeting cloud across the boy’s face is interesting in response to such a simple question.

“Jim.”

Spock waits. The boy’s face is closed.

“You have no family name?”

The boy looks away, hands clenching in his lap.

“Not that I can remember.”

Ah. Spock makes a show of enjoying another mouthful of soup, hoping to set the boy at ease. To set _Jim_ at ease.

“How did you come to be on this planet? You are…human, are you not?”

Spock hadn’t realized that it was possible for Jim’s face to become more still.

“Yes. I am human.” He looks away. “I…don’t remember much of how I came here. I know that I fell from the sky, like you. I know that I was injured, like you. Bones saved me.” He stands, his motions stiff, tight. “That’s all I know.”

Three steps across the room and he’s gone, pushing aside the curtain the must function as a door. Footsteps disappear from his hearing, and Spock lowers his head to contemplate the remaining contents of his bowl.

He hadn’t meant to offend.

\--

It’s several hours before Jim returns. Spock had set his bowl as far from his sleeping mat as he could, but he is nowhere near being able to move himself around. His fractured arm is still painful, limiting the use of his dominant hand, and his broken leg is excruciating at any motion. He had managed to find a receptacle that is clearly intended as some sort of chamber pot, and slid himself far enough off the mats to avail himself of it before sliding himself back. He represses the illogical surge of embarrassment that such banal dependence produces.

The whole process leaves him drained and aching, his muscles weakened and stressed from the crash. He has what feels like a full-body bruise, and he can only begin to imagine what kind of shape he must have been in originally, that he is still in this much discomfort. He pushes the thought away, and pulls himself into a sitting pose, back straight, legs in front of him to accommodate his injury. Meditation will not last long; he is too exhausted. But it is necessary that he begin re-incorporating it into his daily life, if he hopes to continue making progress in his recovery.

If he hopes to recover enough to leave.

He’s only just slid into the second state when he hears the quiet sound of the door panel. He keeps his eyes closed, allowing his breathing to continue its slow and rhythmic pace. The steps cross the room and stop next to him, the mats shifting as a weight settles next to him.

In. Out. In.

“I’m sorry.”

Out. In.

“I just…” Spock can hear the uncomfortable shifting of the body next to him. “I just…don’t like to talk about it. I don’t like that I can’t remember it. And seeing you…it’s just…too close for comfort.”

Out. In. Out.

“I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Spock opens his eyes.

“It is unnecessary to apologize, Jim. Your responses were rooted in your emotions, and therefore were logical in context.” He pauses, meeting Jim’s gaze. “I was not offended.”

A weak smile spreads itself across Jim’s face, and he reaches out to take a small jar in one hand, and Spock’s injured hand in the other. Spock represses an overly strong inhalation.

“Great. Thanks.”

Jim removes the cover from the jar and turns Spock’s hand over onto his knee. Spock can see now that the underside of his wrist and his two outside fingers have been burned. He had not yet noticed, and he takes a moment to be concerned at the level of distraction he must be experiencing to have not realized the full extent of his topical injuries in the several day span of his recuperation.

“What are you…”

The cream is cool on his skin, moist and soothing as Jim’s firm fingers rub it into his damaged flesh. Jim keeps his eyes on his work, his fingers sure and strong as he works the oily product in small circles, watching with a critical eye as it absorbs into Spock’s skin.

“Just a little something Bones gave me to put on you. I’ve been doing it for days now.” He blinks up at Spock. “I hope that’s ok.”

Spock doesn’t have the heart or the will power to begin the explanation of why, exactly, this is not in any way ‘ _ok’_. The sensation and pressure of Jim’s fingers pressing the skin on his fingers back and forth is too overwhelming. Besides, he reminds himself, due to his injured arm, this is actually not something he can do for himself at the moment. It is only logical to accept assistance when offered. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, ignoring Jim’s low chuckle.

“Guess that feels good, then.”

Spock doesn’t dignify it with a response.

At some point Jim produces a small blade, and the first kiss of an edge along the end of Spock’s fingertip makes him shudder, his eyes opening in time to see the small crescent of discarded nail falling to the floor. He clamps down on his responses in an effort not to impale himself as Jim grasps his fingers firmly, one by one, and trims his nails down to the nub. The scrape of the blade raises goose bumps all over Spock’s body, his recently acquired calm shattered into oblivion by this unknowing act of gentle consideration.

At long last Jim is done, and moves off the bed to brush the small pile of clippings off the edge of the platform. Spock sags back into the covers, his body humming with the extended contact and care.

Jim smiles, pulls a blanket up over his legs.

“I don’t think I got your name either, you know?” Jim says, and waits.

“Spock.” He blinks. “My name is Spock.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Well, Jim, he seems to be doing pretty well. Better than I would have expected, actually.” Bones is crouched at the bottom of the tree, a piece of grass hanging from between his lips. The bones and talons of his necklace clack against each other as he stands, cracking his neck absently. “That leg…I worry about it. I got it as straight as I could, but…who knows what his skeleton is like.” He looks distressed for a moment, his tufted tail twitching idly behind him, then shrugs. “Rest of him seems to be doing great, though. I would have thought a full season to recover, but it’s only been, what…” He scratches his bare chest.

_“Fifteen days.”_

Bones blinks at him, and Jim realizes suddenly he’s used the wrong language. He’s doing that more and more recently, and he can’t quite decide what to think of it.

“Sorry, fifteen days.”

Bones nods, eyeing him carefully. Jim schools his expression into nonchalance, letting the tension slide from his shoulders.

“Uh huh. And how are you holding up? Caring for an invalid is hard work. Are you taking care of yourself?” He cocks his head, his eyes far too shrewd for Jim’s peace of mind. “Any more nightmares?”

Jim turns away, lets his gaze roam off across the plain, examining the cloud of dust kicked up in the distance by a herd. He’ll need to go hunting soon. He’s nearly emptied his stores, feeding himself and the alien for this long without time for gathering. They’ll be alright- it’s early yet in the season, food is plentiful. And Spock is stronger every day; soon he’ll be strong enough to be left on his own.

“No, Bones. No nightmares.”

Bones makes that distinctive harrumphing noise that indicates his total disbelief, but he leaves it, and turns to head back to the village.

“Come and find me if you need me, Jim.”

Jim just nods, listening until the sound of Bones’ footsteps are lost in the constant rustle of the long grass.

_Nightmares_.

He clutches his head and slides down the tree, planting his rear on the packed dirt and leaning forward to press his forehead to the dust.

_The smell, the scent of burning flesh, the screaming, the never-ending screaming. The faces that appear, one after another, eyes wide and mouths gaping in shock, in terror. The one face that supersedes all the others, dark eyes piercing him through._

It took months after he was found before he could sleep through the night, years after that before he could go long stretches of days without seeing, without remembering. Not that he ever truly remembered anyway, that was half the awfulness of the dreams - they were all image and sound and feeling, no names, no information, no actual memory of the scenes involved. Just unending terror and the sensation of falling.

_Hunger, deep hunger, and the sight of dust blowing in from the fields. Weeping, first in the distance, then close at hand. Words echoing through a loud speaker, words he can’t make out, but can feel in his gut, feel turning him cold and sour and tight._

He scrubs his fists into the dirt, the repetitive motion soothing his nerves.

Bones is right. The dreams are back.

\--

Spock is sitting up when he gets upstairs, leaning forward into a puddle of sunlight as he works strands of fibers carefully through his nearly healed fingers. He lifts his face to Jim, and Jim nearly shivers under his gaze. He shoves the sensation down, smiling broadly at the sight of his erstwhile roommate, the sun gleaming on the head of thick, dark, hair.

“I have made eighteen meters of…” he considers the length coiled at his feet, “…string today, in the manner which you showed me. I hope this is useful.” He blinks up at Jim, his face open and earnest, and Jim’s smile becomes a bit more sincere.

“That’s great, Spock. We’ll have you crocheting in no time!”

Spock looks skeptical, and Jim laughs, coming over to drop down next to him and examine the growing length. It is, as he expected, perfect in every regard. He’s beginning to doubt that there’s a skill this man doesn’t have, at least when it comes to small motor control. Every motion he makes is deliberate and graceful, which is no small feat while recovering from extensive injuries, and every small task Jim has set him has been completed assiduously and with minute attention to detail.

“Here. Let me just…” Jim reaches out, pulling the yarn through Spock’s fingers and settling it into his hands. “So, this is not enough to make a whole lot yet, but let me just show you the basics. Then, when you’ve made some more, you can start practicing.” He reaches up into a pouch hanging on the wall, fishes out a carved wooden stick with a hook on the end. He settles the hook in Spock’s right hand, the yarn in his left, wrapping an arm around Spock’s shoulders so that he can manipulate both Spock’s hands. There’s the small flinch Spock always makes when Jim touches him, but Jim ignores it. He may have only known Spock for a short time, but he’s never known Spock to have any trouble speaking his preferences. If he did not want to be touched, Jim’s quite certain he would say so.

“Take the yarn like this - see? Make a loop, and tie it off. That’s the beginning of what is going to make a chain - the foundation of what you’ll construct.” He laces his fingers into Spock’s without thinking, and when Spock shudders lightly, Jim suddenly realizes exactly how close he’s gotten.

_Shit_.

He’s a touchy guy, always has been, and the villagers here, they don’t seem to mind. Bones never has. But it’s more pronounced with Spock, and he can’t…it’s like his hands have a mind of their own with him, seeking him out and touching him, checking him, gravitating to him without thought or permission.

He’s no idiot, and he’s no child. He’s watched the young folks in the village court, and play, and mate. The villagers feel no shame in attraction, and no sense in hiding it, but Jim has never made the leap - something has always held him back, no matter the charms of the one offering. But now…

Nothing to do but bluff through it. He lifts his head from Spock’s shoulder, putting a little distance at least, then begins looping the thread, catching it with the hooked end of the stick and pulling it through.

“See? Like that. You try.”

He sits back, watching as Spock’s competent fingers catch on, swiftly equalizing the size and shape of each link in the chain. The look of concentration on his face is mesmerizing, and Jim bites his lip, forcing himself to look away.

“It is…similar to things I have seen my mother do, at home.”

“It is?” Jim supposes he shouldn’t be surprised - some form of fabric crafting must be a fairly common humanoid trait, or at least common where temperatures are not always tropical.

“Yes.” Spock frowns down at the string in his hands, fingers moving more quickly as he becomes more certain. “Vulcan clothing is almost entirely woven - we use the loom for construction of fabric, and embroidery for decorative purposes. However, my mother is human, and could frequently be found knitting.” He pauses and looks at Jim, his eyes wistful. “Before I was deployed, she was starting a knitting group of the neighbors. Vulcans always like to learn new skills, and she had sent off to Earth for more patterns.”

First he’s shocked - who knew Vulcans and humans had interbred? But then Jim can’t help himself - he begins to laugh, chuckles that rise in his belly and burst out his mouth, filling the room and startling the birds in the tree. The mental picture of a human woman, with Spock’s brown eyes, teaching a roomful of Vulcans how to hold needles is just too much.

Spock eyeballs him, the string abandoned in his hands. He never smiles, but his eyes are glinting in the way that Jim has quickly found means he’s laughing.

“I advise you not to laugh. She is a formidable teacher, my mother.”

Jim giggles, wiping his face with his hand.

“I can just imagine she is, Spock.” He grins. “She sounds great.”

Spock’s eyes soften, and he looks down, then up again to meet Jim’s eyes.

“What about your mother, Jim? Does she indulge in handicrafts?”

Jim freezes, his muscles locked tight.

_Blond hair, whipping around his face. The scent of perfume, orange blossom and lavender, mixed with the scent of her skin. The sound of her voice in his ear, low and urgent. Run, Jimmy, run like hell, and whatever you do, don’t look back. Run. Run!_

“Jim. _Jim_.”

There are fingers on his arm, and he startles back into awareness. Spock’s eyes are wide in front of him, the yarn abandoned at his side.

“I am sorry to have upset you.” Spock considers him for a moment. “Are you alright?”

Jim breathes for a moment, in and out, forcing his muscles to relax one by one.

“Yeah. Fine. Sorry.”

“It is of no concern.” Spock sure looks concerned, though, so Jim staggers to his feet, turns to the door panel and opens it.

“I’ll just…I’ll be back. I need some air.”

Spock nods seriously, his eyes never leaving Jim’s face as he walks out the door.

\--

_He’s alone, finally, and the darkness around him is complete. He knows he has his hands over his ears, but he peels them off, because he needs them to press the buttons. He’s seen Sam do this before, in the flight simulators, and he thinks it must be pretty much the same. It doesn’t matter anyway - they’re coming for him now, so he’ll die either way. At least the metal of the shuttlecraft keeps out the sounds of the screaming as he pushes the buttons to initiate the launch sequence. He’s fading in and out of consciousness - the gun the soldier had used to hit him over the head had been all too solid - but he stays awake through lift off, though, and through breaking orbit. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t care. They’re dead, they’re all dead, and maybe he will be too._

_He comes to when the chirping of alarms becomes too noisy to ignore. There’s a planet all across the view screen, a big one, and those big green areas sure look like water, and this is bad, because he never did see Sam_ land _in the flight simulators. He pushes the buttons to try and make the lights flash green instead of red, hauls back on the throttle, and aims for something that’s not ocean. He remembers just in time to put on his seatbelt and relax his muscles, and then everything is loud and then black._

\--

“What were you doing before you crashed?”

Spock pauses in his carving to look at Jim.

“We were conducting a routine survey to see if the planet was inhabited, and if so, by what sort of beings. To see what kinds of resources it has.”

“‘We’?”

“Myself, Ensign Glover, and Lieutenant Ajmani.” Spock’s face falls slightly at the names, and Jim feels a brief pang of guilt for bringing them up.

“What was your job?”

“I am in training to become a Science Officer.” Spock sits a little straighter, his shoulders lining up. “I graduated with highest honors from my school, and was admitted to Starfleet, where I am in training to become a bridge officer and a head scientist.”

Jim looks at him curiously.

“What does that mean?”

Spock looks briefly flummoxed, as though he can’t imagine not knowing what Starfleet is, or what being a Science Officer would mean. His face clears, and he peers more closely at Jim.

“Jim, how did you get here? I was under the impression that you were not an infant, but you seem to have very little knowledge of life off-planet.” His face is earnest, and Jim squashes the instinctive desire to get up and run, to flee from even the thought of his previous life.

“I don’t really know, Spock.” He looks at his hands, at the rough places on his fingers, the calluses on his palms from building his house, from wielding a bow. “I wasn’t an infant, but I was a child. I’ve been here for almost ten of their…years, and Bones says I was somewhere around the age of seven or eight when he found me.” His hands are shaking slightly, so he reaches out and grabs a hide and the scraper, settling himself into the rhythmic motion to settle his nerves.

“I was unconscious when they found my body.” He quirks a grin at Spock, who is silently watching. “Like you.” He looks back at his work, turning the hide to scrape the far edge. “I was alone in the remains of a small ship, some sort of shuttle craft. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t remember what I was doing.” He pauses. “I don’t know why I was alone.” Spock is silent, waiting. “I remember flashes, here and there. Faces of people I must have known, places I should recognize.” He puts down the scraper and closes his eyes, massaging his temples as if the action would bring it all back. “I know something must have gone wrong, at the place where I was. I know there was…not enough food. I know there was violence. I know I escaped, but that’s all. I can’t remember, Spock. I just…I can’t remember!”

He looks up, eyes wild to meet Spock’s calm gaze.

“But you dream.”

Jim goes still, and Spock reaches out to gently lay a hand on his. Jim lets him, closing his eyes to let the adrenaline pass through his body, letting his heart calm from its racing pace.

“Yes." He takes a deep breath, licks his lips. "I dream.”

\--

_A tall man with a stern face stands at a podium. Soldiers ring the crowd. Jim is standing outside the fence, watching even though he’s not supposed to. His mother will come find him any minute, but he wants to know, wants to see what’s going to happen. He’s heard a rumor that there might be food, and he’s so hungry, he just had to make sure._

“ _James Kirk, get back here!”_

_He turns to look at her, then back to the crown. The man is speaking, but Jim can’t hear what he says. Then the guards raise their rifles and begin to shoot, the people in the crowd screaming and falling and his mother’s hand on his arm is hurting him and he can’t stop watching even as he’s being pulled away, even as he feels the tears begin to stain his cheeks, he can’t stop listening to the screams._

“Jim. Jim!”

He wakes with a jerk, sitting bolt upright and clutching at the hands on his arms. His face is wet and his eyes are running, but all he can do is grasp Spock’s forearms and gasp.

“Jim. It is all right. You are in your house. You have had a bad dream.”

Jim nods, trying vaguely to calm his breathing. He knows what Spock is saying is true. He can hear the night insects, smell the river on the wind. His body is shuddering as his heart pounds in his chest, the amount of adrenaline in his system making him vaguely nauseous.

“Come over here, Jim.”

Strong hands are pulling him off the pallet where he has slept for the past three weeks and onto the mats with Spock. He goes willingly, too exhausted and strung out to argue on principle or propriety.

Spock settles Jim next to him, close in the warm night, tucking him against his body, the touch of his skin a reassurance that breaks Jim down all over again. He begins to cry, trying desperately to hide it in his sleeve.

Spock ignores it, running his hands methodically up and down Jim’s arms and back until it, too, passes, and Jim is limp and wan beside him.

The silence stretches, lengthens in the dark, and Jim is nearly asleep when he hears Spock’s calm tones.

“Will you tell me?”

Jim waits, considering, but the solid bulk of Spock at his back has lessened the urgency of the fear that gripped him. He presses back into him, and Spock wraps a careful arm around his chest.

“He murdered them. The old man. He trapped them in a courtyard, and shot them all down.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Spock’s arm tightens infinitesimally. “My mother pulled me away. I was watching, I thought…I thought there might be food, so I had run away from her to see, but instead he had his soldiers shoot them, and then she found me, and dragged me away.”

Spock is silent, though Jim can hear his mind ticking. He covers Spock’s hand with his own, interlacing their fingers in an instinctive need for comfort, stubbornly ignoring the way his heart begins to race again at the sensation of Spock’s fingers on his own.

“Did you learn anything else?”

Jim pauses, then rolls to press his face into Spock’s shoulder, inhaling the warm strange scent of the body next to him before pulling his face away to speak.

“My name, Spock.” He turns it over in his mind, his mouth. “My name is Jim Kirk.”

\--

They leave before dawn, Jim hauling on the pulley ropes to lower Spock in a sling to the ground, basket of food clutched in his lap. He’s been hobbling around the place for days now with a cane Bones brought over, his broken leg still splinted and painful, but sturdy enough to begin bearing small amounts of weight. His arms and ribs are entirely healed now, and he has developed a raging case of cabin fever. Not that he’ll admit to it, Jim thinks, but he’s starting to make Jim crazy with his slip-sliding circuits of the small room, his fidgety glances out the curtains.

Thus this trip. If it goes well, then next week Jim will take him out hunting, and they will go as far as the crash scene.

Spock has been on Jim to take him back to the site, and Jim understands, he does. Any hopes that Spock might ever have had of getting rescued by his own kind are fading fast as each day passes. Jim has no idea how feasible it is, but Spock has this idea that if he can examine the wreckage, he may be able to scavenge enough pieces to build some sort of communicator. He’s been telling Jim about it, describing the pieces and their functions, the ways he would fit them together, depending on which pieces are left. How he could power it, how he could boost the signal. He’d wanted to send Jim alone a week ago, but Jim had refused - it was too far, he’d be gone too long for Spock to be alone, and besides, he wouldn’t know what he was looking for, not really. Even if he memorized the diagrams Spock drew with charcoal, what if he saw something valuable, but didn’t know its worth?

Spock had barely spoken to him for two days after his flat refusal, but then Jim had hit upon a trip to the river as a trial, and Spock had been so pleased that Jim kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. The river is close enough to be gotten to and back in a day, but far enough to be a real test of Spock’s stamina. Also, Jim can gather food while they’re there - fishing is plentiful, and there are always marsh birds, not to mention the roots and tubers of the delta plants.

He’ll never forget the look on Spock’s face when he had finished creating his first substantial piece of cloth. He had held it up, so proud, and Jim had praised him unabashedly, genuinely impressed at his ability to pick up the skill so quickly. But then he had tipped his head, looked at Jim, and asked the wrong question.

“Jim, you do not wear cloth. I have known you over a month now, and I have only ever seen you in varying amounts of hides. Why are you having me construct fabric?”

Jim had shrugged, not thinking about his answer.

“For the cold season. You’ll need your own clothes for the cold season.”

He saw the moment it hit Spock, that casual assumption that he was here to stay, that he would never be found, never leave, and wished suddenly and heartily that he could take it all back, but it was too late.

The next day Spock had begun to talk about the wreck, about making contact, building a beacon, and Jim had resolved within himself to do everything he could to help. He had no idea if it would work, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stand to see Spock’s face like that ever again. He would help, even if it left him feeling sore and achy in his own guts to imagine his house empty again but for him.

They’d left before dawn, the stars high and bright in the sky, the second moon just dipping below the horizon. Jim had settled Spock onto the travois, sitting this time, and not strapped down. He’d pointed them in the right direction and set off walking, his breathing measured and his stride long and even.

He could see the sky lightening as the moon sank and the sun began to rise, the building color chasing the last of the stars from the morning sky.

What was it like out there, up there? To be among the stars, floating above a world looking down? He must know, somehow, but he can’t remember it. He feels bound, now, in a way he never did before, stuck to the planet with a force he can’t name and desperately wishes to resist. He wants to know, to see, to experience more than just this life, this place, these people. He wants to lose himself in the spaces between the stars, beyond the planet. He wants to chart the undiscovered places, to see sights unseen.

Before him was the river, behind him, the only home he could remember, and all he could think of was the strange man with him and the stars above.

\--

The river stretches before them, broad and flat and sluggish in the mid-day sun. A flock of birds takes flight with a sudden explosion of underbrush as Jim hauls the travois to a small mound a short distance from the water’s edge. He stretches, pulling the muscles across his back and shoulders. He’s already sore- it’s been too many weeks since he exerted himself like this, and he glories in the burn of fresh muscle fatigue.

Spock has levered himself up off the sledge, depositing the basket nearby and making his way to within a body’s length of the water. The look on his face is one part terrified and two parts insatiable curiosity, and Jim laughs out loud to see it.

“Never been swimming?”

Spock blinks at him, folding his hands behind his back.

“I have been swimming. Basic aquatic skill is required of all Starfleet personnel in case of emergency. However…” He aims a baleful look at the over-full river, “I have never swum in anything other than an Academy pool.”

The look on Spock’s face is priceless, and Jim can barely stop chuckling long enough to peel the travois straps off his hands. The sun is warm on his skin and he stretches gloriously, yanking off his leather wrap and stepping up to the edge of the hillock. He reaches up, arching his back, then runs forward, flinging himself in a messy pile into the water with a yell.

The water is marvelous, cool and deep, and Jim surfaces happily, shaking the water from his head with a shiver, treading steadily in the middle of the current. He squints, holding a hand over his eyes, but he can’t see Spock anywhere. He blinks, wipes the water from his eyes, scans the bank.

The grip on his foot makes him jump with a shout, sinking as he is pulled under the water in surprise. He’s laughing before he surfaces, swallowing water and giggling as a dripping black head pokes out of the water near him. It’s not the water that traps breath in his throat as his vision clears, though.

Spock is smiling.

It’s only for a moment, then his expression settles, his eyes still warm and smug while his mouth falls back to neutral, but for that one moment Jim thinks his world has shifted just slightly, slipping on its axis to slot him into a world where all he can think of is making that smile appear again.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

It had honestly never occurred to Spock to be concerned about his growing attachment to Jim Kirk. After all, Jim was almost the entirety of his social world, and had been since he awoke. The villagers tended to stay away; not out of hostility, but out of what seemed to be a native sense of propriety and self-concern. Bones came around regularly, but never stayed long. It was only natural that Spock would focus on Jim; that he would concern himself with Jim’s comings and goings, that he would try to make himself pleasing and useful to the one who was giving up so much to assist him in his recovery.

And if at some point he had realized that he actively enjoyed Jim’s company, if he grew to understand that the flush in his cheeks when Jim entered the room had less to do with sitting in the sun, and more to do with the feel of Jim’s body pressed up against his as Jim inspected his work, then what of it? Surely it was no surprise that he would begin to feel a certain regard for a person with whom he spent so much time.

Why should he think any differently?

It had taken the look on Bones’ face to trigger the first spasm of doubt in his belly; the way the shaman’s eyes had widened when Jim threw an arm around Spock’s shoulder and laughingly pressed his forehead to Spock’s temple. Spock had flushed under the steady regard, and he had felt suddenly ashamed as he had when yet a child, caught out at some silly emotional pursuit. Jim hadn’t noticed, carrying on with the story he was narrating, pushing in and out of Spock’s space as he always did, never seeing the calculating look on the lined face of the older man.

All Bones does is watch, but Spock burns with his secrets laid bare to new eyes, and he can see that Bones knows it. Every gesture, every touch, is now laden with significance, and how is it even possible that Spock had been so oblivious to the million different ways he reaches for Jim inside an hour?

When Bones is finally gone, and the food is put away, and the lamp lights put out, and Jim is snoring across from him, Spock lets himself drift in his consciousness, sending out tendrils into his own mind and seeing what they turn up.

Yes, Jim is brilliant. Spock has been working with him for weeks now, figuring out where his education had left off and pushing him to assimilate new knowledge. Jim’s brain is elastic and electric, fusing new connections in an instant, drinking in the new information as fast as Spock can give it context.

Yes, Jim is physically attractive. It would be illogical for him to deny, and impossible for him not to notice. Jim is unlike anyone else he has been around - long and lean and sun-soaked and lovely. His physical presence, his aura, is unmistakable, and Spock has gone from being hyper-aware of it pressing against his senses to actively seeking it out. He tingles when they touch, and basks in the glow.

Yes, Jim is…tactile. He touches Spock nearly constantly, and where Spock would normally shrink from contact of any kind with a stranger, it has never bothered him. No, more than that - he enjoys it. Jim’s touch is grounding, reassuring, with almost no mental bleed-through. Jim’s energy comforts him, warms him, and Spock turns to him like a flower to sun whenever he’s around.

Spock has resisted the urge to scan Jim’s thoughts entirely - he gets flashes of emotion, certainly, especially when Jim is upset or excited, pulling Spock along with him either way. He began reinforcing his shields the moment he awoke, knowing that his convalescence would require close contact, and wanting desperately not only to respect his savior, but also to maintain his own careful equilibrium.

Sometimes, though, he wishes he could peek.

And yes, whenever Spock contemplates his inevitable departure…it hurts. In that space beneath his lungs, right behind the point of his breastbone, it hurts. The thought of leaving Jim here, where, though he is well regarded, he is still an alien, is painful. The image of him growing older, alone, cuts through Spock. Jim is human, after all - he only has so much time. Surely it could be better spent? Surely he deserves more?

\--

“You could accompany me.”

Jim stares at him blankly.

“What?”

Spock adjusts the tiny fitting with the tip of his thumbnail, bending the delicate piece of aluminum into place.

“When I leave. You could accompany me.” He glances up. Jim’s face is blank at first, then scuttles its way through surprise, shock, and ends up on disbelief. Spock plows on. “It will not be long before they come for me. The ship’s course was plotted. Once the rendezvous dates were missed, they will begin a systematic search of all possible sites for a landing or crash.” He turns the small beacon casing over in his hands, watching Jim’s face as unobtrusively as he can. “The communicator will speed the process, ensure that it happens as quickly as possible, but even without it, they would eventually locate me.” He looks up, his eyes caught on the swirling mix of expressions on the other’s face. “You could return with me. Jim…” He resists the urge to reach out and touch the man across from him, to press his need into Jim’s skin. “You do not belong here, this is not your home. These are not your people. Come away with me - be who you were meant to be.”

It’s the wrong tack to take, and he knows it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Jim’s face falls closed, and he scoots back from the table.

“No, Spock. Maybe you don’t belong here, but I do. These people” he gestures in the direction of the village, “maybe they don’t look like me. Maybe they didn’t give birth to me. But they _saved_ me, Spock, they saved me and they raised me, and as far as I can tell, that’s more than _humanity_ ever did for me.” He’s out of his chair now, pacing and gesticulating wildly, his hands broad and strong as they cut through the air. “Just because you think you’re _better_ than them, just because they’re a primitive society, that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’m not one of them, maybe…” he looks away, slowing suddenly, face turned to the wall, “…maybe I never will be. But Spock, they’re all I’ve got. How can I walk away from that?”

Spock bites his lip, the knot in his stomach hard and solid. He’s angry, suddenly, angry at the total irrationality of this frustrating and wonderful human. This man who will throw his potential away, who will sit on this backwater planet and deny the rest of the universe his gifts, his joy, his very presence out of some twisted combination of hobbling loyalty and repressed fears. It’s _unfair_ , completely unjust, that Jim will grow old and die here in on this same small platform, light years and lost dreams from who he should have been.

“And so you will be ruled by your fear. You will turn your back on the greatest opportunity of your life because you have been hurt out there, and here you are safe. You will allow decades to pass, living out your life as the accepted but strange friend on the edge of the village. You will never be among your own kind. You will always wonder what might have been. You will _always_ ,” he locks eyes with Jim, “look at the stars with longing.”

Jim’s face is white and livid, but Spock doesn’t care. He licks his lips and continues.

“When I am gone, I will remember you. And when I do, I will think of what you could have been, if only you had not given up.”

He looks down at the crumpled diode in his hand, not lifting his head when the door curtain smacks into place behind Jim’s retreating form.

\--

The rumble of thunder surging across the open plains to the west wakes him, a gradually building roar that crescendos to a BOOM which bursts over them, shaking the leaves of the tree all around. Before the last of the sound has faded, the heavens open like a sluice gate, and the noise of water pouring and pouring all around them fills his ears.

He pushes himself upright on his mats, reaching in the darkness for the crutches he knows are within reach, levering himself slowly up and moving, step by step, across the room. Jim must be up; the rolled reed curtains that create the four walls are down for the first time he’s ever seen, and if he squints he can see that there is no shape in the pile of blankets where Jim would be.

He makes his way to the wall, leaning his crutches against one of the supporting posts. His leg is nearly fully healed at this point - still stiff and slow, but capable of bearing his weight. He has been practicing when Jim is out of the room; walking back and forth on the wooden floor, first one step, the three, then five. He pushes aside the curtain and steps out onto the darkened platform.

At first he can’t see anything, can only hear the rushing of the water that is suddenly soaking him to the skin, the roar of it as it streams through the trees and off the thatched roof. Then there is a blinding flash of light, and in the afterimages that linger on the back of his eyelids he can see the still form leaning against the far corner of the balcony. The thunder crashes around them, and Spock covers his ears, wincing in pain at the sudden cacophony. He nearly stumbles, but catches himself as he takes the two, three, four steps across to Jim.

“Go back to bed, Spock.”

Jim’s voice is flat and tight, expressionless in the dark.

Spock steps forward again.

“Spock. Go _away_.”

He closes the distance between them, and desperately trying not to think about what he may be doing, he wraps his arms around the closed-off form in front of him, pulling Jim into his chest and tucking Jim’s head under his chin.

Jim makes a token effort to push him away, and then crumples against him instead, nearly throwing Spock off balance again as his leg protests beneath him. He presses his face into Spock’s shoulder, and all Spock can do is hold him closer. He can feel the desperate buzz of heightened anxiety that surges along Jim’s skin, the dark fear and pulsing fury and absolute hopelessness that are spinning through his mind. He doesn’t know how to cope with this, this is not the sort of emotion with which he is acquainted, and so he does the only thing he can think of and begins to move his hands, slowly, soothingly, up and down. Jim turns into his touch, the water cascading across them both. Spock can feel it running from his hair in rivulets, trickling down the points of his ears and catching on his eyelashes. They may as well be at the bottom of the river, because there is no part of them still dry.

Jim’s shoulders are heaving, and Spock is beyond concerned, so he brings his fingers up to Jim’s face, touching lightly, feeling the slight click as the mental connection slips into place. He only intends to send some calming, soothing thoughts, but the second that Jim feels the connection, he surges forward, his hands sliding from Spock’s waist to grasp at his head and hip, his face finding Spock’s unerringly in the dark.

Spock freezes, all thought driven from his mind at the touch of Jim’s mouth. It’s warm, damp from the rain, and utterly distracting as it moves against his own. He didn’t know he wanted this, didn’t _know_ that the feeling of Jim’s chest thrust against him would make his knees wobble and his pulse rise, but now he knows and he is stricken with doubt. This can’t be - they’ve only known each other a short time, he’s leaving soon, he…Jim slides his tongue between Spock’s lips, and all rational thought ceases as he pulls Jim’s cool form up against him, pressing them together from knee to neck. Jim clutches at him, murmuring into his mouth, and Spock’s body is inflamed, his whole being narrowed to focus on the being in his arms.

It takes a moment before he realizes that Jim is mouthing _inside, inside_ into his skin, his hands sliding beneath the band of Spock’s pants to trace the line of water down his back. He turns, slowly, not wanting so much as a centimeter to come between the glory of Jim’s mouth and his neck, and walks Jim backward toward the curtain. They make it through without detaching, knocking Spock’s crutches to the floor with a clatter, and Jim laughs against him which makes Spock’s hands on his back even more urgent.

They tumble onto the mats, Jim’s hands at Spock’s waistband as Spock rolls them over and positions Jim’s lips under his so he can best apply his tongue to exploring every inch of Jim’s mouth. Jim’s hands are quick, yanking his sodden pants to the floor, leaving Spock’s dick to slap against his belly. He’s never been like this, never _felt_ like this, like he’s burning from the inside out, like he has to feel all of Jim against all of himself _now_ , right _now_. Jim’s fingers are everywhere, pressing against his chest, his neck, winding into his hair. He can feel the incessant thrum of Jim’s emotions all around him now, spinning through his mind like an aphrodisiac, exultant and stunned and oh so eager.

Spock gets a hand at the ties of Jim’s loincloth, but the wet material is impossible to undo. He’s fumbling hopelessly when Jim begins to lick the rainwater from his sternum, and before he knows it, he’s ripped the cloth away with a sudden jerk. Jim gasps, then begins to laugh and laugh, the sound muffled by Spock’s skin and the pounding rain. He lets himself fall forward, bare skin to bare skin, and they’re both just wet, dripping all over the mats and blanket, their hair slinging droplets around the room at every turn. It’s intoxicating, the feel of Jim all along him, and what they’re doing is so instinctive, so inevitable, that it doesn’t matter that their knowledge has been largely theoretical. Spock couldn’t stop these motions, these impulses, this grasping of his fingers on Jim’s hip, the bite of his teeth into Jim’s shoulder, not if the world depended on it.

Jim is writhing beneath him, pressing his hips up to Spock’s, and he has somehow gotten his fingers wrapped right around Spock’s length and is pulling in a way that is making Spock see little flashes of light in his peripheral vision. He can hear himself rumbling in his chest, words of desperation, words of devotion, as he pushes himself back against Jim, rocking them back and forth, faster and faster, their groans deepening in sympathetic resonance.

He thinks it’s supposed to be different; longer, more intentional, a slow, deliberate dance of push and pull, give and take. This is hurried, sudden, and without finesse, but the rainwater between them is slick and warm from their bodies, and Jim fingers are pulling everywhere they touch, and Spock can’t imagine anything being better than this. Jim freezes beneath him, then lurches, his back arching impossibly off the mat as his mouth opens and his fingers squeeze painfully tight. Spock closes his mouth on Jim’s, licking the taste of his breath off his teeth and coming impossibly hard as Jim’s body stutters beneath him.

There is a moment where there is nothing, no breath, no movement, and then they both inhale, deep, shuddering gasps for the oxygen that seems to have gone out of the room. Spock slumps over, exhausted, his whole form limp alongside Jim. He thinks they must be steaming, the heat of their bodies turning the rain to fog. The blanket has been entirely kicked off the end, but it is more than warm enough, so he pulls Jim more firmly against him. Jim goes willingly, turning until he finds the best fit, head in Spock’s neck, knees drawn up. Their breathing slows, evens, and between one long, slow, pull and the next, Spock falls asleep.

\--

When he wakes up, Jim is gone.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

He’s made it to the river by dawn, sinking himself into the mud at the water’s edge and watching as the sky turns from black to yellow to pale orange. The mud is warm around his knees and feet where he kneels, the sound of the river steady and sure.

He remembers strapping the unconscious form of the alien to the raft, pushing and pushing to work the weighted craft free of the mud, hoping against hope that it would float and steer. He’d never dreamed he’d know the weight of that body with its eyes open, the touch of that heated skin against every inch of him.

He closes his eyes.

He’d remembered everything last night; he’s not sure why. Whether it’s Spock’s presence, or their discussions, or time, or just sheer stupid luck, but it’s all there now, throbbing in the back of his brain with a heavy certainty. Kodos, his mother, Sam, the ship. The soldiers with their guns, the hunger in his belly that grew and grew until he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Climbing into the spaceship alone, starting the ignition sequence even as the men with guns banged on the hatch. He can’t even begin to decide if he’s glad or not; he almost can’t remember what it was like not to know, not to see the lines of bodies when he closes his eyes, not to hear the cries of those remaining in his ears.

He remembers the crash now, remembers falling from the sky, calm, so calm, because it didn’t matter at all what happened to him; the only thing that mattered was that Kodos hadn’t got him. He remembers waking up on Bones’ platform, splinted eight ways from Sunday and being spoon fed broth for a month. He remembers the rattle of Bones’ necklace, the touch of his furred fingers on Jim’s brow.

He remembers Starfleet, and the shuttle, and how he’d always said he’d be a pilot, maybe even a captain, flying through space and saving the day. The very thought gives him the cold shudders now - space is darkness and death, and falling from it is even worse.

And yet…and yet there is Spock. Spock with his brilliant mind, Spock with his gently piercing gaze. Spock, who suffered his own recuperation with a quiet dignity Jim’s never seen anywhere, Spock who has never once given up on his own dream of returning to space, to his people. And he will succeed; Jim knows this now - this planet is a backwater, but not so far off the beaten path that Spock’s beacon will go unnoticed. It will only hurry the inevitable process of his departure. Sooner, rather than later, they will come for him, and then Spock will be gone.

He buries his hands in the mud, leaning forward to press his face into the earth till his eyes are smeared shut with the stickiness, breathing steadily through his mouth.

Spock wants him to come, to leave, to go with him into places unknown. And Jim…Jim just can’t. He can’t, he _can’t_. He’s got too much here, he’s worked too hard to just let it go. This is his home, more than anywhere he can remember; this is the house he built with his own hands, this is the community that saved him and protected him and nursed him back to health. This is his friend, who cared and cares for him. What is there for him in space? He has no education, no skills. Only a background in terror and a healthy distrust of any being of his own species.

The only thing for him up there would be Spock, and how is that going to work? He’s going to what, schlep around behind him while Spock finishes his training? Sit on a planet somewhere and pine? No, better surely to stay here, in his own place, where he has a purpose and a life, modest though they may be.

It will hurt, though. He’s not fool enough to think it won’t. It’s going to hurt like nothing he’s ever felt before when Spock finally leaves.

He pulls himself out of the mud with a shuddery sigh and flings himself into the river, diving deep to wash himself clean.

\--

He feels better after swimming, though the thought of Spock’s eventual departure weighs on him, heavy and dense in the bottom of his stomach. He pushes it resolutely aside. They’ll have time before then. Whatever has happened between them now, they are clearly friends, and they will have time yet to cement that friendship and to see…to see what else they may be. He forces himself to step quickly over the long grass, heading back to the smudge of trees he can see on the horizon. Maybe when Spock is gone, he can come back to visit. He knows that Starfleet personnel get leave- why couldn’t Spock spend it here, instead of somewhere else? He doubts the Prime Directive applies very much anymore, at least in regard to this particular village. If raising and knowing him for ten years didn’t give them a clue about aliens and space travel, he doesn’t know what will. Not to mention Spock.

_Spock_.

He can’t tear his thoughts away from him, and he just doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s like he’s a magnet for all things Jim; for his touch, for his sight, for even his thoughts. Spock speaking, Spock building, Spock laughing, Spock sinking his teeth into Jim’s shoulder.

Suddenly he can’t wait to get back.

\--

He’s jogging when he sees it land, sees the glint from the metal as it flashes across the sky. It puts off a smoke trail, and any fool can trace the line straight back to the village.

_Spock_.

Jim begins to run.

\--

He makes it back to the tree in record time, feeling like his heart is going to beat out of his chest, but it doesn’t matter, _it doesn’t matter_ , because that ship means Spock is leaving, and Jim can’t just let him go.

He flings himself against the base of the tree, panting with exhaustion.

“Spock! SPOCK!”

No answer.

Jim’s stomach sinks to somewhere approximately around his ankles, and his knees threaten to buckle, but there’s no time for this, no time at all. He has to find Spock, has to find him _now_ , because somewhere between seeing that line of vapor in the sky and hearing no answer to his calls, he’s realized that there never was a choice in this at all; he needs Spock, wherever he is, no matter what that means.

He pulls himself away from the tree on shivery legs and turns, running as quickly as he can to the edge of the plain, toward the large, silvery shape sitting in wait.

\--

It doesn’t take more than a handful of moments to get there, but he spends every step with his eyes glued to the ship, breathless with fear that it will begin to rise and he will be helpless to stop it.

He can see a gaggle of tall strangers, well-clothed, with their caps of black hair gleaming in the sun. It’s immediately clear which of them is different, which of them is his, and he bee-lines for Spock, fetching up in front of him completely unable to speak. Spock’s face is open, mobile, in the way it wasn’t when he came, in the way the others are not, and he works through surprise and concern before he reaches out and catches Jim as his knees shake loose.

“Jim! What are you doing here?” Spock’s hands are warm and solid on his arms, holding him firmly as he wobbles. “I would not have left without telling you.” His expression darkens, his fingers tightening on Jim’s arms as Jim gets his feet under him enough to stand on his own. “I promise you, I would not have left without saying.”

“Spock…I…” He’s still wheezing, and is suddenly completely overwhelmed by his frustration, his sudden epiphany too fresh, too blinding to be compressed into words, so he grabs one of Spock’s hands and drags it to his temple, ignoring the sudden look of alarm in Spock’s eyes. He presses Spock’s fingers hard, closing his eyes, and feeling the sudden acquiescence as the connection snaps into place.

_Don’t leave Spock can’t let you leave want to come with you no matter where take me with you don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave me here alone…_

Spock’s eyes are wide and dark, and Jim can hear the rattle of Bones’ approach in the distance, but all he can do is wait with his heart in his throat for the only response that matters.

“Yes, of course. If it’s what you want.” Spock’s grip on his arms hurts, but he leans forward and rests his head against Jim’s, and even though Jim’s cross-eyed with the proximity, he can see that Spock is smiling, smiling.

“’I’m all packed. Let’s head out.”

Jim lifts his forehead from Spock’s and turns, taking in the sight of Bones holding a rucksack, his boots laced all the way up.

“Umm, what?”

Bones’ tail twitches with impatience. “Oh, come on, kid. You didn’t really think I’d let you run off without me, did you?” He rolls his eyes. “I got things I wanna do too, you know? K’rstn is ready to take over from me anyway, I may as well get the hell out of her way.”

Jim looks back at Spock, feeling disbelief written all over his features. Spock simply looks calm.

“If that is your wish, doctor.”

“It damn well is. Pack your shit, kid. Hurry up!” Bones rubs his hands together and casts a dubious eye at the ship. “Spock. That thing’ll fly, right?”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Bones has refused to stand near the windows, sitting instead as close to the center of the ship as possible. Spock supposes that he should not be surprised by the shaman’s distaste for flying, given that he had never been off the ground in his life, but he finds himself routinely surprised by Bones, so he chalks it up to normalcy.

Jim, on the other hand…Spock looks over at him, pressed to the transparent viewing wall. Once he had gotten over his initial nerves during take-off, he had taken to space like a sehlat to desert sand, eagerly examining every console, every instrument. He has already made Spock name every star they can reasonably identify twice, and the look on his face at seeing his planet from above will be one of Spock’s treasured memories for the rest of his life.

He walks over, standing next to Jim at the viewer, allowing himself a moment of pleasure as Jim unconsciously shifts his body closer to Spock’s, reaching out to snag his fingers in Spock’s shirt front.

He doesn’t know what this is, or who they’ll be. He doesn’t know where they’ll go, or what they’ll do, or who they’ll meet, or what they’ll become. But he does know this - whatever it is, it will be Jim’s own best destiny, and Spock? Will be there at his side.

 

_A tree against the sky possesses the same interest, the same character, the same expression as the figure of a human.  
_ [ _Georges Rouault_ ](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/g/georgesrou370951.html) _  
  
Caresses, expressions of one sort or another, are necessary to the life of the affections as leaves are to the life of a tree. If they are wholly restrained, love will die at the roots.   
_ [ _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ ](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/n/nathanielh153020.html)

 

 


End file.
